Harriet Evans and the Tri-Witch Tournament
by WinterSunshine
Summary: A gender-swapped version of The Goblet of Fire. Just my take on how things might have been different if Harry had been a girl :) Canon-compliant, fem!Harry, fem!Ron, male!Herman, fem!Draco, etc, etc.
1. The Scar

**A/N: **So I did a thing… I was imagining how things might be different if all of the characters (well, most of them. The major ones anyway) had been gender-swapped. I know there's a whole section on here dedicated to that, but mostly what I've seen is parody-type, AU stuff… And I kind of wanted to stick as much to canon as possible, but also allowing room for some re-imagination… So I've started here at Goblet of Fire—because, well, it's one of my favorites. Annnd, we'll see how it goes!

Obviously some stuff is going to remain as original—Voldemort's parents' story is the only major one I can think of right now. I went back and forth a LOT on whether or not to gender-swap James and Lily, and started off deciding that no, I wouldn't, but I've gender-swapped Snape, and I just didn't see how that would work (if I wanted to stay true to canon), if I DIDN'T swap them. So I ended up doing it.

Also, Lady Valdymort is spelt that way due to the development I did from Chamber of Secrets, which basically just changes the spelling of her given name, which makes for a few letter changes in her new name. So far, the plan is to move from Goblet to the end, but if things pan out, I may go back and do the first three books as well…?

And Male Ginny. I've made him the same age as Ronnie and Harriet simply because, scientifically, boys mature slower than girls, and I just really didn't jive with the idea of her falling in love with her best friend's baby brother? I don't know. Hate on me for that if you want, but I have a little brother, and I just can't imagine it… But mainly because Harriet is a little more precocious, a little more mature, and a LITTLE (a little. Of course, it wouldn't be fem!Harry if she didn't have her temper) more grounded than Harry was, and I just didn't see her falling for a younger boy. THUS, Garrick and Ronnie are twins.

Because this author's note is going on for so long, I'm going to post the gender-swapped names at the end of the chapter for reference. Thanks for taking the time to read this! :)

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**The Scar**

**.**

Harriet Evans lay tangled in the sheets of her slim twin bed on number four, Privet Drive, chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to catch her breath—still recovering from the nightmare she'd just woken from. The very thin, lightening bolt scar engraved in her forehead was burning as if on fire, as if a brand had been pressed into her skin there. She pressed the tips of her fingers against it, in an attempt to quash the horribly painful sensation as she pulled herself into a seated position atop the sweat-dampened sheets.

In the darkness, as the nightmare-induced panic began to fade from her mind, she groped for her glasses on the end table, still clutching her burning scar with the other hand. As she perched the spectacles on her nose, the small bedroom she'd been sleeping in came into clearer focus—bringing with it, if not comfort, at least familiarity. The small chamber off the top landing of her aunt and uncle's house in Little Whinging, Surrey was not a place she had ever felt particularly happy to be in—but it was a setting she knew, at least, in comparison to the decrepit old house she'd just been dreaming of.

Harriet snapped on the bedside lamp, scar still burning, and swung her long, colt-like legs over the side of the mattress, pressing her bare toes into the threadbare rug on the floor. Curious and alarmed at the pain in her forehead—this had only happened very rarely before—she crossed the room to the wardrobe against the opposite wall and yanked open the door so she could look into the mirror hanging on the back of its door. She half expected to see a deep wound in her head where the scar had opened up—it certainly felt as if her head were about to split in two.

The glass pane reflected back a thin girl, porcelain-skinned, and freshly turned fourteen. A mane of long, thick and untidy black hair framed her angular, not-quite delicate face—the hair's rebelliousness was a near-constant fixture, and not merely due to the fitful sleep she'd only just surfaced from. No matter how stridently she tried to tame her long black hair, it never obeyed. Beneath the fringe of her side-swept bangs, her bright green eyes were lit from within with confusion and remaining trepidation, though her expression appeared otherwise composed. She leaned closer to the mirror, pushing her hair away from her forehead so she could look at her burning scar more closely, but it appeared just as abnormally normal as it always had, thin as a wire, silvery white and slightly crooked, hovering over her left feathered brow. However, it was still stinging something awful, which _wasn't_ usual.

Harriet sunk onto the edge of her mattress, struggling to remember exactly what she'd been dreaming of… She could remember the decrepit house on the hill… She could remember that there had been two people there she knew, and one she didn't have any recollection of ever having met before.

In the mirror, she watched the corners of her lips pull down as she concentrated on the wispy, receding notes of her subconsciousness. It was like grasping at vapors, impossible to get a firm hold of…

Just as she was about to give up on the premise, however, the very dim apparition of a darkened room floated into her mind's eye, alarmingly clear… A very large snake slithering across the ancient parquet floor, and a frail, haggard-looking woman she knew was named Petra Pettigrew, nicknamed Wormtail… And, with a shock like ice-water through Harriet's veins, she remembered the high, thready voice… the voice of Lady Valdymort.

Harriet closed her eyes and worked to conjure the image of Valdymort's face, but to no avail. She hadn't seen her face, after all—and the moment that she might have, in the instant that Valdymort's chair had revolved to face her, the spasm of horror that had doused her being had startled her from sleep… Or, possibly, it had been the spasm of pain in her scar which had jolted her into wakefulness… She couldn't remember which exactly.

And who, she wondered now, had the unnamed third woman been? For now that some of it had come back to her, she knew there had undoubtedly been an old woman there, the one person she was not familiar with, had never seen before; the old woman who had crumpled unnervingly to the floor just seconds before she'd awoken…

The frail ethers of her recollections were slipping away faster now, and she struggled to remain focused on them. She hurried through the facts that she knew, not wanting to lose them—knowing, instinctively, that remembering this dream was important.

Valdymort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed.

They had also been plotting to kill someone else.

They'd been plotting to kill _her_.

With this realization, Harriet's head jerked up, and she burst to her feet to examine the room cursorily, her heart thrumming behind her ribcage again, as she peeked in her wardrobe, looked under the bed, searching for something out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, it was difficult to find anything ordinary _at all_ in the small bedroom. There was a large, leather-bound trunk at the foot of her bed, standing open to showcase the assortment of odd things inside: a cast-iron cauldron, a sleek-looking broomstick, messily folded black robes, and a small collection of spell books.

And on the desk adjacent to her bed were more unusual objects—rolls of parchment and bottles of ink, two feathery quills… And dominating most of the wooden surface was an enormous, gilded birdcage—empty for now, for Harriet's snowy owl, Hedwig, was currently off hunting for mice and other small rodents.

On the pillow of her bed lay an open book that she'd been reading the previous night. She must have fallen asleep watching its moving wizard's pictures—she'd always found their repetitive motion soothing and peaceful.

Harriet reached out a hand to pick up the book as men and women in bright tangerine robes flew back and forth across the exposed pages, throwing a red ball called a quaffle to each other. She watched as one of the witches scored an enchanting goal by lobbing the ball through a fifty-foot high hoop.

Sighing, she shut the book. Even Quidditch did nothing to ease her mind in these moments. She laid _Flying with the Cannons_ on her bedside table and crossed to the window. Reaching forward, she parted the yellowed lace curtains so she could survey the street below. She was unable to quite shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was an instinctual caution that incrusted her very bones these days—an unremitting alertness against danger, never quite leaving her.

Unlike the odd jigsaw of her bedroom behind her, the streets below were utterly empty of anything strange whatsoever. Other than the beacon of her own lamp shine, not another window was lit, not another figure to be seen walking the streets below—nothing.

Harriet sighed, her breath fogging the window's glass as she rested her still-burning scar against the cool surface. It wasn't the physical pain she was eager to eradicate; she was used to bodily distress and injury. Just last year she'd fallen fifty feet through the air from her broom during a Quidditch game… The year before, her arm had been pierced through with the fang of a Basilisk in what had theretofore been an unknown, hidden Chamber in the bowels of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A few months before that, she'd lost all the bones in her arm due to the idiocy of one Miss Gildabelle Lockhart—an intervening professor she'd had whom had been more obsessed with her own reflection than that of the welfare of her own students. Harriet had suspected Professor Lockhart to be more familiar with beauty potions and elixirs than any _real_ magic at all.

Of course, Harriet couldn't really blame Gildabelle _solely_ for her own odd and unrelenting magnetism for danger…

No—there was no question she was used to these things. But the last time she'd felt pain in her scar, she couldn't help but to recollect, was when Lady Valdymort had been in very close range… But it was a highly ridiculous notion to believe Valdymort would be _here_, on Privet Drive…

Even so, Harriet swept the streets below again, straining for any sound that might have been out of the usual. Anything amiss, anything at all…

Harriet leapt nearly a foot in the air as—not the swish of a cloak, not a high, cold laugh—but a great thundering roar reached her ears. When she realized it was only the foundation-quivering snores of her cousin Dorothy in the next room, she gave a short, harsh laugh at herself, willing her heart to slow back into its regular pace, and gave herself a shake.

_Get it together, girl,_ she chided herself, dropping back onto the edge of her mattress, and curling her legs to her chest. _You're just on edge because of a silly nightmare. Don't be ridiculous. No one else is here._

Of course, this last sentence wasn't entirely true; there were three other people residing in this house at present. Her cousin Dorothy, her Aunt Veruca, and her Uncle Percival were asleep in their beds, of course, but for all they regarded of her presence, they might as well have been invisible. Or, rather, _she_ might have been.

Harriet had been brought to live with her aunt and uncle when she was just barely a year old—after her parents had been killed in what she'd only learned three years previous was cold blooded murder by the one and only Lady Valdymort. Up until then, she'd assumed her oddly shaped scar and orphan status had been due to a particularly bad car crash she'd been lucky enough to escape from. Now, she knew better. Now, she knew of the world she'd come from, and the world she'd returned to when she'd been eleven years old and had received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the mail.

Aunt Veruca and Uncle Percival hadn't taken it well, of course. There had been much uproar and tension—and eventually, they'd been driven so mad by the red-wax stamped envelopes that they'd taken Dorothy and Harriet, and retreated to a tiny island where Veruca and Percival were convinced they'd be safe from the unceasing barrage.

But nothing would keep Harriet from that school—and if she'd known just how valuable her time would be spent there, the friends she'd make, the bonds she'd form, and the abilities she would discover, she would have fought harder. Luckily, she'd had Alba Dumbledore, Hogwarts's headmistress, fighting for her then, along with Merrick McGonagall, Ruby Hagrid, and who knows how many others.

She knew now nothing would have kept her from attending Hogwarts.

It had been Ruby Hagrid who had delivered her to the Evans' doorstep the fateful night of her parents' premature demise, and it had been Ruby once again who had burst down the door of their small hut in the middle of Lord knows where, who—with her considerable stature and form—had positively petrified her aunt and uncle, taught her cousin Dorothy a lesson in manners, and had shipped Harriet abruptly off to Diagon Alley, where an entirely new world had literally opened up before her eyes.

Even more disconcerting to Harriet than discovering she was an honest to goodness _witch_, was the fact that everyone in the wizarding world—in stark contrast to the life she'd lived with her aunt and uncle up until then—seemed to know her name. There hadn't been a place she could go where whispers and eyes hadn't followed her—and while it had humiliated her at first, causing her to flush pink each time she caught wind of her breathed name, or another pair of eyes on her face, she had since gotten used to the unrelenting infamy—to a point.

In the three years that had passed, Harriet Evans had faced more danger than an adolescent girl ought to ever face; the most notable of events being her first year, in which she'd come face to face with Lady Valdymort herself—then so weak she'd had to reside in the body of one Professor Quira Quirrell, who had died in the resulting mêlée.

In the years after that, of course, she'd faced the formerly mentioned owner of the Basilisk fang, along with a small black diary and an obscene trail of events that had led many at Hogwarts to believe she, herself, was the heir of house founder Saphorina Slytherin. When that had been proven otherwise, Harriet had hoped things would finally begin to look up, but then Sienna Black had escaped from Azkaban—the only prison in the wizarding world, and with good cause. No one, in the history of the world, had escaped Azkaban and their soul-sucking guards, the Dementors. Until then. Not only had it been believed that Sienna was after Harriet herself, but she soon discovered that the then seemingly deranged serial killer had not only been her mother's very best friend all through school, but was also Harriet's godmother.

It turned out Sienna had been innocent on all counts of the murders she'd been wrongly convicted of—having actually been committed by Wormtail, Valdymort's supporter, whom much of the wizarding community had believed dead. However, Harriet and her best friends Ronnie Prewett and Herman Granger knew better; they themselves had seen Petra Pettigrew in the flesh the year previous, having taken on her true human form after hiding in the Animagus form of a rat, posing as the Prewett family pet for a large number of years up until that moment in the Shrieking Shack just outside Hogwarts' grounds. Nobody but Alba Dumbledore had believed their claims.

In the course of that one insane evening, Harriet had almost believed herself free of the burden of staying with the Evans during her summers at last. Sienna, who seemed to Harriet like a very cool older sister or aunt, had offered to have Harriet live with her once her name had been cleared—but the dream had been cut abruptly short when Wormtail slipped through the clutches of the Ministry, forcing Sienna to flee for her life. Harriet and Herman had aided Sienna's escape with the credit to a Hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, no one had seen or heard from her—except for Harriet herself.

Needless to say, it had been a mind-warping few years for Harriet, and in a week, another one was to begin…

Harriet felt a very poignant ache of homesickness in her belly as she imagined returning to school. Though this very place was where she'd spent most of her life, she by no means considered it home. Hogwarts was where she felt most at peace, and most valued. Her friends felt more like family to her than her own flesh and blood—in fact, she couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd ever confided in her aunt and uncle. And why would she now? Aunt Veruca and Uncle Percival treated the word 'Magic' as the most disgusting curse word in the world, and had forbidden Harriet to mention one word of it to them under their roof. In fact, the Evans claimed, while Harriet spent her semesters at Hogwarts, that she was actually off at Mother Mary's Secure Institute for Hopelessly Incurable Criminal Girls.

She hadn't gone to her aunt and uncle about a nightmare since she'd learned better at three years old.

Harriet didn't really mind that she'd just have to look elsewhere for advice—in fact, in an odd sort of way, it pleased her—because, now, she _had_ elsewhere to look.

Now, she reached for the birthday cards she'd stood next to her bedside lamp—one crowded with so many loopy, flourishing letters, she could hardly distinguish the words, they were squeezed so tightly together. The other offered succinct but heartfelt warm wishes in smooth, distinguished cursive. Ronnie Prewett and Herman Granger, respectively, Harriet's two best friends, had always been there for her in the years previous, and she knew they would undoubtedly be there now.

She knew Herman's face would go pale if she mentioned the connection between her scar hurting and Lady Valdymort. She knew his immediate advice would be to write to Professor Dumbledore, and that he'd offer to look up curses in his library of spell books… But Harriet hardly knew what the headmistress was up to during the school year, let alone during the summer holidays. For an instant, an image of Alba Dumbledore, clad in a yellow polka-dot bikini, sunbathing on some beach somewhere, hopped unbidden into Harriet's mind. The thought brought a slight smile to her lips, but then quickly faded. What would she even write? Anything she tried to conjure sounded silly and histrionic.

Harriet focused her attentions instead on what her other best friend Ronnie might say. The flame-haired, freckle-faced girl had always been gangly and thin—not unlike Harriet, except much taller, so that the slim features looked even more pronounced. But despite her beanpole frame and slender extremities, she had a surprisingly strong grip, and Harriet knew it was with this grip that she would clutch at her arm, her cerulean eyes swimming with baffled concern. She knew her friend would offer her any consolation she could, but would ultimately be unable to give her any straight answers. She'd likely offer to ask her mother about the incident.

Even theoretically Harriet knew Artitha Prewett, who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, had no direct experience in the matter of curses, especially killing ones. As far as permanent curses went, in fact, Harriet's was the only one anyone in the wizarding world knew of to bear its unique circumstances. No one else had ever been struck with the killing curse and lived to tell the tale.

Quickly, she pushed these options from her mind. She didn't particularly want the entire Prewett household to know about some brief twinge she'd had in the middle of the night. For all Harriet knew, the physical presence of the pain could be purely coincidental, resulting from the nightmare she'd just barely woken from. Mr. Prewett would get all protective, and she just knew Frannie and Georgia, Ronnie's sixteen-year-old twin sisters, would tease her relentlessly. That, or they'd worry she was losing her mind…

In any case, she didn't want to leave a bad impression on the clan of witches and wizards she considered her own second family. In Ronnie's extensive and closely-crammed birthday card greeting, she'd transcribed at length about the coming Quidditch World Cup, and she didn't particularly want her visit to be filled with needless needling about her scar when they should be focusing on more exciting matters. And yet… Why did some part of her crave this? Why did some part of her long to sit in the Prewetts' crowded, enchanting kitchen with a cup of mint tea, and tell Mr. and Mrs. Prewett everything?

Maybe because what she really wanted was someone older she could confide in, an adult witch or wizard who could give her their unbiased, educated opinion, someone who cared about her, someone who had experience in Dark Magic…

"Of course!" she whispered to herself, as her godmother's visage floated into her mind's eye once again. She was already on her feet and crossing to her cluttered desk, clearing enough space so she could lay out a piece of parchment, and loaded her eagle-feather quill with ink.

_Dear Sienna,_ she wrote, and then abruptly paused, thinking again of silliness and dramatics. How was she to phrase this without sounding stupid? She had so much to thank her godmother for—if not the offer of a loving, actual caring home, then at least Sienna Black had made Harriet's time at the Evans' more endurable.

The Evans had relinquished some of their formerly hedonistic tendencies, one of the most notable instances being that they now allowed Harriet to keep her school things in her room, which really helped her feel just a little more prepared for the upcoming school year.

Harriet shifted in her seat and attempted to focus on what she wanted to write to her godmother, trying to draw on the two missives they'd had so far this summer.

The two letters that had arrived for Harriet from Sienna this summer had both been delivered by large, flamboyant tropical birds—which, in the wizarding world, believe it or not, was not the usual mode of mail delivery. Hedwig, a snowy white owl who was of the more typical mail transport, had turned her beak up at these frilly show-offs, sharing her water dish with a belligerent, slightly supercilious glint in her amber eyes.

But Harriet had liked the glamorous birds. Not only were they beautiful, but they immediately brought to mind an aura of tranquility and relaxation—which she hoped Sienna was getting lots of. After all of her years of undeserved captivity and torture, she deserved a beach, some palm trees and plenty of sunshine. Bolstering this hope was the nature of Sienna's letters, which had seemed cheerful and easygoing. In both of them, Sienna had made sure Harriet knew she could write to her if she ever needed anything.

Though Harriet needed her godmother's advice right now, she sat in consternated silence as the sky outside faded to a pearly silver color that preceded the dawn. As the silky light melded into gold and splashed across her peach-colored bedroom walls, inspiration finally struck, and Harriet bent low over her parchment, beginning to pen her letter.

Finally, when her aunt and uncle began to stir in the next room over, Harriet sat up straight, confident she had it right, and read her letter over.

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_Dear Sienna_

_Thank you for your last letter. That second bird was almost more beautiful than the first. It makes me happy to think you're in a place where you can take some time to decompress. You deserve that._

_Things aren't much different from how they usually are around here, but at least I have my stuff. Thanks for playing a hand in that—I owe you… Update on Dorothy's diet, I suppose: it's not going too well, if you ask me. She's not losing, which makes me suspect she must be sneaking food from somewhere, though she insists she's not… I hide out every week at weigh-in, knowing she's bound to throw a great Dorothy-sized tantrum when the numbers don't drop… Ha-ha. I can see her expression this minute…_

_Overall, I'm ok though… Except for one, weird small thing that happened just this morning. My scar woke me up; it was hurting again… And I can't help but remember that the last time that happened was because Lady Valdymort was at Hogwarts… But I don't reckon she'd be anywhere that close now, would she? Do you happen to know if curse scars can sometimes hurt years later? I'd love some answers, if you're able to provide them._

_I'll send this off with Hedwig when she gets back, she's off hunting at the moment. Give Buckbeak a pat for me._

_Love, Harriet_

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Harriet scanned the letter cursorily one more time, ultimately satisfied. She hadn't felt the need to include the bit about the dream—she still wasn't sure what it had all meant yet, and she didn't want to worry Sienna needlessly if it was really just a nightmare. And it _was_ just a nightmare—wasn't it?

**.**

**END A/N: **I'd love to know what you guys thought of this. As far as I know, no one's done this yet…? So we'll see how this is received. I've done a lot of research for this guys, so DO let me know if you think I've got anything wrong and such. As far as names go, I've thought long and hard about these, and I'm afraid I'm quite a fan of what I've come up with, so nothing will change there, but I'd love your feedback either way!

Talk to you soon!

.

**Name References:**

Harry Potter – Harriet Evans (Again. Debated long and hard over this. At first I thought Harriet's parents would hyphenate their last names, but then figured Harriet's mom would have been pining over her dad for so long at school that she must have dreamed and dreamed of becoming Mrs. Evans. So there's that.)

Ron Weasley – Ronnie (Veronica) Prewett (as I've gender-swapped Arthur and Molly.)

Hermione Granger – Herman Granger (Hermione's parents don't play a huge role in the series, so I figured they would be okay to leave as they were.)

Ginny Weasley – Garrick Prewett

Fred Weasley – Frannie Prewett

George Weasley – Georgia Prewett

Percy Weasley – Pippa Prewett

Bill Weasley – Beth Prewett

Charlie Weasley – Charlie (Charlotte) Prewett

Draco Malfoy – Darcie Black

Lucius Malfoy – Lucy Black

Narcissa Malfoy – Narciso Black

Rubius Hagrid – Ruby Hagrid

Tom Marvolo Riddle (Lord Voldemort) – Tamara Marvela Ryddle (Lady Valdymort)

Neville Longbottom – Nelly Longbottom

Luna Lovegood – Luca Lovegood

Xenophilius Lovegood – Xena Lovegood

Oliver Wood – Olivia Wood

Aunt Petunia – Uncle Percival

Uncle Vernon – Aunt Veruca

Dudley Dursley – Dorothy Evans

Albus Dumbledore – Alba Dumbledore

Minerva McGonagall – Merrick McGonagall

Quirinus Quirril – Quira Quirril

Severus Snape – Sylvia Snape

Lee Jordan – Leanne Jordan

Nicolas Flamel – Nicolette Flamel

Vincent Crabbe – Virginia Crabbe

Gregory Goyle – Greta Goyle

Seamus Finnigan – Sela Finnigan

Argus Filch – Agnes Filch

Peter Pettigrew – Petra Pettigrew

Sirius Black – Sienna Black

Remus Lupin – Remy Lupin

James Potter – Joan Potter

Lily Evans – Lyle Evans

Marcus Flint – Marcie Flint

Dean Thomas – Diane Thomas

Justin Finch-Fletchley – Justine Finch-Fletchley

Colin Creevey – Colleen Creevey

Gilderoy Lockhart – Gildabelle Lockhart

Moaning Myrtle – Miserable Marvin

Lavender Brown – Lucas Brown

Godric Gryffindor – Godiva Gryffindor

Helga Hufflepuff – Herbert Hufflepuff

Salazar Slytherin – Saphorina Slytherin

Rowena Ravenclaw – Ronan Ravenclaw

Cornelius Fudge – Cordelia Fudge

Marge Dursley – Marvin Dursley

Sybill Trelawney – Seb Trelawney

Arthur Weasley – Artitha Prewett

Molly Weasley – Marius Prewett

Nymphadora Tonks – Nymbus Tonks

Bellatrix Lestrange – Becrux Black

Rodolphus Lestrange – Rosalind Black

*Of course, there's more, but these are the main ones :)


	2. The Invitation

**A/N: **Hey, guys! I was just looking over what I'd posted for this so far and realized I've only posted the first chapter! It's been a good while—so I figured I'd post the next one!

**.**

**The Invitation**

**.**

No one looked up, or even acknowledged her, when Harriet stepped into the kitchen twenty minutes later. But, of course, Harriet was used to this. She slipped into her seat as Aunt Veruca concentrated very hard on slicing a grapefruit into quarters, red in the cheeks with the effort. Uncle Percival did not look up from behind the morning's _Daily Mail_.

Dorothy was perched on the chair beside her father as if a royal princess, waiting to be served her breakfast.

Though Dorothy had been soundly embarrassed by her end of year report, she'd met the expectation of weight loss head on. In fact, she'd apparently come home at the end of summer and voiced her desire for the whole family to start a new health regime. It was only later that her aunt and uncle had read the end-of-year report from Dorothy's posh private school. As usual, they'd overlooked the bad grades and all the bullying claims; but the part they hadn't been able to ignore had been the bottom portion.

The school nurse had reported her concern over Dorothy's weight, not due to health worries, but because the school did not stock skirts large enough to span the girl's burgeoning hips and bottom.

It was clear Harriet's cousin had been thoroughly embarrassed by the nurse's expression, but she'd held her head high and had continued to claim, all summer, that it had been _her_ idea in the first place.

Of course, Uncle Percival had thought his daughter's desire to lose weight and start on the track to a 'holistic health journey' as Dorothy called it, brilliant. Aunt Veruca, as well, had cooed over her daughter's genius-ness and ambitions to turn her life around. They'd gladly jumped on the bandwagon, claiming it would be a summer of family bonding.

But Harriet, who honestly could not afford to lose much weight herself, was not happy about the all-inclusive diet. She was already very thin to begin with.

Fortunately, favor seemed to be on Harriet's side; the treats and cakes her friends had been sending her for weeks remained safely concealed beneath the loose floorboard in her bedroom—of which Aunt Veruca, Uncle Percival and cousin Dorothy had no knowledge of.

The moment the first day's meal plan had commenced—green tea and a single slice of peach for breakfast, carrot sticks and a boiled egg for lunch, and bland grilled chicken atop three sprigs of asparagus for dinner—Harriet's stomach had been left snarling and cramping something vicious. She'd sent word of the torture her superiors were subjecting her to, and her loved ones had responded immediately.

Ronnie had penned a long note of sympathy, along with a promise of a lifetime supply of treacle tarts and cauldron cakes.

Herman had promised to send all that he could, which meant parcel after parcel of sugar-free snacks, because both of Herman's parents were dentists.

And Ruby Hagrid, Hogwarts' enormous, matronly tender of the grounds, had sent along an enormous sack full of her homemade rock cakes—which Harriet hadn't touched, for fear of breaking a tooth.

Not to mention the four decadent and elaborate birthday cakes she'd been sent—chocolate from Ruby, strawberry cream from Sienna, carrot spice from Herman, and a towering, massive confection of flavorful masterpiece from Ronnie, who claimed her entire family had gotten involved in the occasion.

In short, Harriet was not without food.

So she couldn't complain when Aunt Veruca set the smallest sliver of grapefruit on her plate. Harriet sipped her tea and swallowed the pulpy, bitter morsel without a word, knowing she'd have herself a feast when she went back upstairs later—unlike her cousin.

At the beginning, Harriet very much thought a summer diet was just what Dorothy needed—if not to whittle her waist down, then to, at the very least, sort out her very overbearing and snotty attitude. It would do Dorothy good, she'd reasoned, to give the massive girl a taste of humility. But as much as Harriet had hoped for her cousin to learn the lesson, it hadn't touched the sphere of Dorothy's vast ego. In fact, every ounce she lost seemed to inflate it even _more_.

Now, as the little family gathered around the kitchen table for their sad breakfast, the doorbell rang. Uncle Percival immediately regarded the doorway to the entrance hall with beady, disapproving eyes, and Aunt Veruca grunted as she rose from the table—her finished grapefruit in front of her—and lumbered off to get the door.

Harriet tore the rind of her finished piece of fruit into small pieces as she strained her ears to listen in on the conversation occurring at the front door. There was a high note of laughter, and the short, icy response of Aunt Veruca's words. Then the front door closed with more force than Harriet thought entirely necessary, and the shredding sound of a letter being opened.

A moment later, the women came back into the kitchen and took Uncle Percival aside, murmuring quietly and tersely about a bit of purple paper between them. Finally, the tall and rail-thin man turned, his lips set in such grim a line they appeared to have vanished, and there were two bright spots of color in his jutting cheeks. He rubbed the balding spot atop his blond head in an aggravated gesture, his expression almost fearfully incensed.

"I would like to see you in the living room, please," he said to Harriet, the words buzzing through his clenched teeth like a hornet's wrath. "Now."

"What have I—?" Harriet began, bewildered and a bit indignant. But her aunt interrupted almost immediately.

"You will obey your uncle's request, and you will obey it now," she demanded shrilly.

Harriet stood without another word, knowing the consequence was not worth the trouble, and passed her uncle, who followed her into the living room and shut the door sharply behind them.

For a solid minute, Harriet's uncle didn't say a word. He stood, stock still, in front of the unlit fireplace, his hands clutched around a crinkled bit of purple stationary, his black eyes glittering with what Harriet could neither discern as fear or anger. She knew the workings of her little-spoken uncle's mind, and felt it rather more appropriate to wait until he had his thoughts sorted, rather than prodding him in any sort of direction.

She slunk toward the loveseat to wait, admiring the way the early morning sunlight lit on Aunt Veruca's dappled rug, which was in need of a vacuum. No doubt it would be Harriet to take on that chore later today.

"_So_," Uncle Percival finally spat, but didn't continue on. When Harriet lifted her eyes from the carpet to her uncle's face, she found him watching her shrewdly, as if waiting for a response.

It slipped from her lips before she could stop herself: "So what?"

Uncle Percival's expression immediately morphed into one of outraged indignance, tinged with a hint of disbelief. Harriet immediately regretted her error, and opened her mouth to backtrack, but before she could do so, a tight-lipped grin overtook her uncle's face.

"It just _so_ happens," he said very quietly as he strode toward her, "that a letter arrived this morning—regarding you."

"Me?"

"You."

Harriet only stared at her uncle, wondering who on earth would be writing to her aunt and uncle, by postman, about _her_. It was entirely unheard of.

Uncle Percival roughly shoved the letter into Harriet's lap, and then stepped back, rocking on his heels as he waited for her to read it.

.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Evans,_

_Good day, and how do you do? My name is Marcius Prewett. On the obvious note that we have never met, I'd like to formally introduce myself, though I'm willing to bet you've heard many exciting things about my dear youngest daughter, Veronica. _

_As Harriet might have indulged in you, the Quidditch World Cup final takes place next Monday night, and my wife, Arititha, has recently acquired prime tickets through her connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports._

_I'm writing for permission to take Harriet along to the match, something I know both she and Ronnie will enjoy with exceptional enthusiasm. As everyone who's anyone will know, this event is an undeniable once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain has not hosted the Cup for thirty years and tickets are extremely difficult to acquire._

_In addition, we'd be happy to have Harriet stay for the rest of the summer with us, and to see her safely onto the train back to school on September the first._

_As one last request, I ask that you have Harriet send her response as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered mail to our house—in fact, I'm quite certain he wouldn't be able to find it, though we live in plain sight._

_Anyhow. _

_Hoping to see Harriet soon,_

_Cheers,_

_Marcius Prewett_

_._

Harriet couldn't help laughing when she fished the envelope out from underneath the letter she'd just been holding, and saw that every inch of it was covered with stamps, save for the minimal spot in the center, where Mr. Prewett had scrawled the Evans' address in tiny, almost indecipherable, writing.

"You find that funny, do you?" Uncle Percival spat, "According to your aunt, so did the postman. Wanted to know where the letter was from, that's why he rang the doorbell. Found it simply _hilarious_."

"Well," Harriet said again, still laughing to herself.

Uncle Percival went very pale. "Well _what_?" he hissed. "Am I to stand here and listen to more of your tart remarks, young lady? You would do your best to stay on your aunt's and my best side, if you know what's good for you."

Harriet thought of Uncle Percival reporting her backtalk to Aunt Veruca, and knew the woman would find more than enough punishments to replace her time at the Prewetts'.

"N-nothing, Uncle Percival. I'm… Sorry," she stammered. If she behaved well enough, she just might be able to avoid any punishment at all; in fact, she might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. After all, Uncle Percival was, for whatever reason, a little more lenient with Harriet than her aunt ever had been.

"I simply meant to say, well, they… The Prewetts don't usually communicate by Muggle mail, and… and…"

"_And_?"

"And, well, everyone makes mistakes, don't they?"

Uncle Percival's eyes narrowed into slits as he appraised his niece for one very long moment.

"I didn't mean… To make light of the situation… Obviously, they've gone over the top with it. Obviously it's an embarrassment to you, Uncle Percival, and I sympathize with that… I didn't mean any harm…" She trailed off feebly, noting that her uncle's expression hadn't changed. He continued to glare down into her face, towering over her like a swaying palm tree, blocking out the light. Harriet resisted the urge to glance toward the door, where she knew her aunt would enter if they took much longer to settle this.

Aunt Veruca was a lot less willing to relinquish her control on Harriet than Uncle Percival was.

Still, as the clock over the mantelpiece became the loudest thing in the room, Harriet didn't dare speak. She could see the consternation on her uncle's face, and didn't know whether saying a word would sway his decision one way or the other.

Finally, his hand extended so quickly that Harriet started, wondering for a split second if he was going to strike her. He pointed at the mauve-shaded page.

"Who is he?"

"Marcius?"

"Hm."

"He's, um… Aunt Veruca's met him; well, maybe not _met_ him, but she's seen him… He's my friend Ronnie's father, he met her with his wife off the Hog—off the school train last term…"

Uncle Percival turned his head toward the door and called for his wife, making Harriet cringe. She hadn't meant to mention her name, it had only come out as an accident.

Aunt Veruca strode into the living room a moment later and read the letter for herself, her lips pursing, and her expression tightening as though she'd tasted something disgusting as her beady eyes roamed the letter's words.

"Do you know who he is, dear?" Uncle Percival said when she'd finished and, to Harriet's disappointment, slid the letter into the front pocket of her apron.

Aunt Veruca turned to Harriet. "Dumpy sort of domestic looking person?" she clarified, "Load of children with red hair?"

Harriet felt the flicker of a frown turn her lips, but knew Aunt Veruca would be even less tolerant of her 'backtalk' than Uncle Percival had been.

"Yes," she answered, a little stiffly.

Aunt Veruca didn't seem to hear her niece's tone. She was muttering under her breath about stay-at-home husbands, and how backward and appalling it was, as she skimmed the letter again.

"What is this Quidditch rubbish?" she finally demanded.

A stab of hot annoyance lanced through Harriet's chest, heating the place behind her sternum. "It's not rubbish," she retorted shortly, "It's a sport, played on broom—"

"Yes, yes, that's enough!" Aunt Veruca cried, waving her free hand frantically in the air, as if to wave away an obnoxious odor or something of equally vile effect. But Harriet saw the panic in her aunt's eyes, and knew it wasn't just disgust that kept any mention of any variation of magic out of her house.

She retreated behind the letter again as Uncle Percival continued to glare daggers at Harriet.

A moment later, Aunt Veruca's faced popped up from behind the paper again, nearly as purple as it. "What does he mean, _the normal way_?"

"Like… The opposite of snail mail, I guess. Owl mail."

"_Owl mail_?" she spat, and Harriet didn't know if her aunt's expression was clueless or appalled.

"That way's normal for us witches." She hadn't been able to resist, and despite the possible consequence, Harriet felt an amused smirk pull at the edge of her lips in response to her aunt's expression.

Aunt Veruca's lips pursed, and it appeared as if she might explode. Harriet was abruptly reminded of the summer before, when her aunt's brother Marvin had done the same thing. But then, that had been Harriet's doing.

"Don't you mention those filthy creatures to me, let alone under my roof!" Aunt Veruca was now shaking with rage, her face a worrying shade of magenta, veins spider-webbing through her temples.

"I only—"

"You dare speak so daringly, while you sit there in the clothes your Uncle Percival has worked so hard to put on your scrawny, unappreciative back—"

"After Dorothy tossed them away," Harriet retorted waspishly, narrowing her eyes at her advancing aunt, unable to resist any longer. The anger had swept over her with an unexpected swiftness. They had the audacity to act as if they'd done Harriet even a single favor—while she slept on a lumpy mattress only _recently_ acquired—probably from the landfill—compared to the mat under the stairs she'd slept on for the first ten years of her life, while they practically starved her, while she drowned in the hand-me-down tents her cousin called _clothes_…

"You will not speak to us like that!"

Harriet let her jaw lift a fraction in defiance. Very badly, she would have liked to challenge her aunt. While she wasn't particularly looking forward to the punishments she would surely be doled, Harriet had simply had enough. She had lived under her aunt and uncle's absurdly discriminatory hands for long enough—and if there was one thing she knew, it was that she'd always found a way to supersede their flimsy attempts at confinement.

She was already 'cheating' on Dorothy's diet—and she wasn't going to let Aunt Veruca stop her going to the Quidditch World Cup—not if she could help it. As Marcius had said, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Knowing she'd find herself at the match somehow helped to cool some of the anger heating Harriet's face. She allowed the realization that she'd be with her best friends soon enough to fill her, to calm her. She took a deep breath. "Fine, then," she said coolly, "It's decided that I can't see the World Cup. Can I go back to my room now, then? I've got a letter to Sienna I want to finish. You know—my godmother."

Just as quickly as her aunt's face had gone beet-red, it went white as parchment. Beside his short and plump wife, Uncle Percival made a strange balking noise.

"So… So you're writing to her, then?" he piped up, trying to make his tone unflinching and brave, but Harriet saw the fear constrict her uncle's pupils, and knew that the mention of her would-be serial killer godmother rooted him to the spot. Harriet was very pleased with herself that she'd casually failed to mention that Sienna had, in fact, been innocent the entire time.

"Yes, I am," Harriet said, lifting her chin a little more, daring them to forbid her. "It's been awhile since she's heard from me, and, well, if she doesn't, she might start worrying that something's wrong…" She let her tone trail off, injecting a note of fretfulness into her words, knowing it would goad her aunt and uncle on.

She knew, in their minds, that if they tried to stop Harriet from writing to Sienna, her godmother would begin to worry that Harriet was being mistreated. Aunt Veruca and Uncle Percival weren't the brightest bulbs in the fixture, but they were smart enough to suspect that Harriet would tell Sienna all about not being allowed to attend the World Cup, and then she'd know for certain that Harriet was being oppressed…

Harriet watched the contemplations and anxieties pass behind her aunt and uncle's eyes as if wipers across a window screen, and after a moment, she saw the resolve form in their faces, almost simultaneously, and suppressed her pleased smirk.

They turned away from her, whispering tersely under their breaths, and Harriet struggled to compose her facial features as they turned back to her.

"Fine, then," Percival said, "Your aunt and I have decided that you may attend this… this… sporting event…"

"You write and tell these _Prewetts_ that they are to pick you up, mind," Aunt Veruca interjected. "We haven't got time to go traipsing all over the country."

"And you may spend the remainder of your holidays there," Uncle Percival continued serenely. "And you can tell… tell…"

"Sienna," Harriet prompted haughtily, no longer trying to disguise her smirk.

"Yes—her. Tell her you'll be going."

Harriet grinned broadly. "I will. Thank you very much!"

She stood and exited the living room, her steps lightened by the news, and by the prospect of seeing Ronnie and Herman again. It had been more than two months since she'd seen them, after all. _And_ she was going to get to see, not only a real-live professional Quidditch match, but the World Cup, no less!

"Oh!" she said sunnily as she nearly stumbled right into Dorothy, who had been hovering just outside the door. It was clear she'd been hoping to overhear the conversation, though Harriet didn't think Dorothy had expected it to turn out this way. She looked utterly shocked by the bright disposition of Harriet's expression. "Hey, Dory," Harriet continued as she side-stepped her whale of a cousin. "Marvelous morning, delicious breakfast—wasn't it? Very filling—I couldn't eat another bite! Could you?"

A light, trilling laugh escaped Harriet—something she'd been unable to see reason to let loose in quite some time—as she processed Dorothy's baffled expression, and bounded back upstairs to her room.

"Oh, hello, Hedwig!" she continued to trill, when she saw that the elegant snowy owl had returned. She was perched on the stand in her cage, appraising Harriet with cool amber eyes and clicking her beak in a familiar way where Harriet knew she was annoyed with something.

"Oh, you," she began to croon, reaching out to stroke the owl's feathery head, but was abruptly interrupted by a fluffy—but still rather hard—blow to the head.

Reflexively, Harriet glanced toward her bedroom doorway, expecting Dorothy to have thrown something at her, but the entryway was empty.

"What—?" she began to say, but just then something soared past her ear, so close it whistled, ruffling her hair.

She whirled around, catching and following its course of trajectory, and her eyes fell upon a very small ball of grey feathers, which was whizzing around her bedroom rather like a rocket gone awry. It twittered and hooted excitedly, but even with its speed and tendency not to sit still, Harriet could see there was no letter attached to the diminutive bird's leg.

She searched the floor, and immediately upon lowering her gaze, she saw the letter that the owl had dropped at her feet. She stooped down and unrolled the small bit of parchment. Inside was one of Ronnie's shortest notes ever.

.

_Harriet—MUM GOT THE TICKETS! Eeeeee!. Ireland vs. Bulgaria, Monday night! Dad's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway._

_We're coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you CAN'T_ _miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at 5 on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come get you at 5 on Sunday._

_Herman gets here this afternoon, and Pippa's started work—the Dept. of International Magical Co-Op. Don't mention about Abroad while you're here—she talks for HOURS._

_See you soon!_

_xoxo, Ronnie_

.

Harriet's gaze lingered on the word Pig. Ronnie had written it twice, so she couldn't have misinterpreted her friend's writing. But Harriet had never seen anything so opposite of slovenliness. The little owl was still flying around the room, and despite Harriet's annoyance when she failed to catch the little thing so she could write her response, she had to admit—Pig was very cute.

"Come 'ere, little guy!" she pleaded as it ruffled her hair again, "Come on—calm down for just a sec! Do you want a treat?"

The little owl landed atop Hedwig's cage for just an instant—the bigger foul looked up at it coldly—and then Pig took off again.

Harriet shook her head, smiling to herself at the bird's obvious pride and excitement at delivering its letter, and seized another piece of parchment and her quill.

.

_Ronnie,_

_To both your disbelief and mine, my aunt and uncle said I can come! Double eee! See you at 5 tomorrow—can't wait!_

_Harriet_

.

She rolled the letter into the slimmest cylinder possible, and then, with much more difficulty than that had taken, chased Pig around the room, finally catching him in the corner—wasn't she Gryffindor Seeker? She swore catching Pig was a more difficult feat than capturing the Golden Snitch! She managed to bribe it with a drink from Hedwig's water dish—of which she did not approve—while she tied it to the tiny owl's leg. Still, as it drank, it managed to vibrate, which did not make Harriet's job easier.

She'd barely finished when the owl took off again, leaving a feather behind in its haste. Harriet watched it fly out of her window and out of sight.

When it was gone, she turned to Hedwig, reaching out to stroke her beak. The owl looked much more contented now that the tiny firework was gone.

"Feeling up to a long journey?"

Hedwig hooted, a small, venerable sound.

"I'm sorry," she said as she stroked her beak again, "I know you've just returned. Can you take this to Sienna for me?" As she spoke, she was bent over her desk, unrolling the bottom part of the letter so she could add a postscript describing where she'd be for the rest of the summer. When she was finished, she tied it to Hedwig's leg. "I'll be at Ronnie's when you get back, all right? So go straight there. Don't come back here."

For a minute, the owl stared at her, as if processing her words. Then she nipped Harriet's ear affectionately before spreading her great wings and swooshing gracefully out through the window.

Harriet watched one of her closest friends disappear from sight, and then retrieved a hefty piece of birthday cake from the loose floorboard under her bed. She sat on the sill of the window while she savored it, along with everything else she'd been lucky enough to receive today—her aunt and uncle's permission to stay with Ronnie for the rest of the summer, the fact that all Dorothy had had for breakfast was a measly slice of grapefruit while she got cake, the fact that the sky above was a glamorous and unceasing stretch of cerulean, not a cloud in sight. Her scar was perfectly unnoticeable now, and on Monday, she'd be attending her first Quidditch match. All felt right in the world.


End file.
